Tales from the Muses' Garden
by knittingknots
Summary: A collection of short fics and poems, all based on characters from Greek mythology.
1. Destined Conversation

**Destined Conversation**

At the beginning, you see, Time, my dear Khronos, had not yet come to being. There must be something to measure, some pulse to start counting for time to be measured. Thus, out of the great nothing, I stepped forth. Necessity, Ananke, Inevitability. Without the inevitability of things, you see, Khronos would not have stepped out of the void to join me.

What was it like? Oh dear, I don't think your mind would be able to picture it. Maybe dark would do. Imagine bits of fog in total dark. The fog is Potentiality. It covered me like a blanket, but it was only potential, not inevitable.

But then, as was necessary, he stepped forward. He touched me.

Ah, there are no words that would make sense to you,the miracle of that first joining. He overwhelmed me with his first pulse, a pulse that shocked the nothing into a something, smaller than a seed, containing everything, followed with pulse after pulse after pulse as he marked the passage of things. The inevitability of time.

When we came back to our senses, we saw what the nothing had wrought out of the potential. Oh, that something - we danced around it for untold beats, fascinated, watching it grow in beauty, terror and strength. Oh yes, it was lovely to us, dear, but still terrifying. We watched them dance in the something, Chaos, Gaia, Tartarus and all the others, grow in their inevitable struggles, create destroy, love.

Yes, dear. It is an amazing thing to see. I really wish I could show you. We still watch it all, you know, feeling the beats pass one by one.

One day, though, it is inevitable that all of them shall put down their burdens. The gods too shall die, fading away into nothing. At the end, Khronos himself shall beat no more, and I, firstborn, will lay down my mantle, and return.

Why, you ask. I really don't know. I just know that it's inevitable.

A/N In Greek mythology, Ananke was the personification of destiny, necessity and fate, depicted as holding a spindle. She marks the beginning of the cosmos, along with Chronos. She was seen as the most powerful dictator of all fate and circumstance which meant that the other Gods had to give her respect and pay homage as well as the mortals. She was also the mother of the Moirae, the three fates who were fathered by Zeus.


	2. The Final Challenge

**The Final Challenge**

Odysseus cupped Penelope's cheek. Even in the flickering lamplight, he could tell. Time had taken its toll; he could see it written on her face, in fine lines around her eyes, her lips.

Her eyes, though, they were the eyes that he remembered, that had encouraged him through all the dark days to reach this point. They watched him, thoughtful, perhaps a bit hesitant, definitely wanting. So much time the Fates had taken from them, and he knew it - time to lose who they really were to each other and become slightly acquainted strangers.

No matter, that. He knew her heart, knew its ways, its secrets, its wisdom. They would find their way back to who they were to each other. He had braved too much, faced monsters and the dead and gave up immortality to be with her again, Penelope, the love of his youth, his rock.

His lips touched hers, and he felt her hesitancy begin to melt. Reconnecting with her was his one last challenge, and this one he looked forward to.


	3. Helen at Her Spinning

**Helen at Her Spinning**

I drop the spindle, guiding the thread of while wool as it pulls out of the distaff, then carefully wrap it up around the spindle's staff. Whirling and twirling, it's almost mindless work, but pleasant. Drop, twirl, pick up, wrap. Children of the household play in the sun in the courtyard, small children's games of chase and and ball. Their mother, anxious to please, keep them away from me, afraid of disturbing me in my work.

I would like to be disturbed. But only a little.

I think of my youth, and my desire for something more than the woman's quarters, the women's rites, the women's work. How eager I was to be disturbed then, and when Paris came, with his smile and his tales and his flashing eyes, I could see the ocean, and the exotic lands beyond, and adventure. When Menelaus was called away, and he touched my hand, and whispered in my ear, my heart beat in my ears, and I was lost.

Funny, how after he carried me off, and the world was turned upside down, I spent my days in the women's quarters, spinning endless yards of wool and linen, and watched as the armies fought and hopes died. I thought of death, but the wool kept me bound.

If only they had let me ride, or sail or anything but sit here and spin and weave. Who knows how the world might have been different?


	4. End of the Chase

**End of the Chase**

The chase had been swift, through the meadow and through the forest, but as they gained ground near to her spring, the water nymph Eupheme let herself fall down to the ground, laughing as the goat-horned god followed close behind.

"Ah, Pan, you're getting slow," she said, laughter coloring her words.

His hand pressed over her mouth. "Hush, woman. What would your son say if he found us this way?"

"He's your son, too," she replied, smiling as she played with a ringlet of his hair. He smelled of sweat, and pine, and wine, and summer, she thought as he smiled, moving over her. Her heart beat loudly in her chest from the exertion, and the excitement of the moment.

"Yes, and nearly grown. Shall we make him a sister?" His hand slid up the edge of her gown, running callused fingers up the

It had been a long time, too long since they had last played this game. His eyes, merry but intense, bore into her She could feel his manhood ready and willing, pressing again her thigh.

"Why not?" she replied, letting her hands slide down his back, letting herself press closer to him. "Who knows - maybe the Muses will teach her to sing. After all, her father is known to be quite musical."

He bucked against her. "That's not all he's known for," he said.

Soon, she forgot about sons and daughters and everything else but the moment at hand.

_A/N __Eupheme was a Nymph of Mount Helicon in Boeotia in central Greece who nursed the Muses. She was loved by the god Pan, the goat-horned god of shepherds and flocks, of mountain wilds, hunting and rustic music, and bore him a son named Crotos who became a close companion of the nine goddesses. Eupheme "the well-spoken" was probably the Naiad (water nymph) of the Heliconian spring, whose waters were believed to inspire poets__._


	5. Clotho

Clotho

Spinning, spinning,  
the drop spindle whirls  
as she pulls the thread of our life  
with its twists and curls,  
lumpy, sometimes,  
with with hard bits and burrs  
that her fingers let slide  
to see what unfurls.

The spindle drops  
fine and even at times  
as the wool of our lives  
gently unwinds –  
overspun like a spring  
that wraps and binds  
when she turns it too fast  
and the spindle whirls us blind.

Spinning, spinning,  
the thread pulls out  
Sometimes it snaps,  
and life ends with a shout –  
sometimes she can fix that,  
but it's always in doubt -  
yet sometimes, the thread stretches smoothly  
until the wool runs out.

_A/N Clotho is one of the classical Fates of Greek mythology, and may be the oldest of them all (the earliest mention of the Fates refers to the Fates in the singular, and occasionally calls Fate the Spinner, which is what Clotho means. It is she who spins out the thread of our life._


	6. A Rainy Night in Ogygia

**Rainy Night in Ogygia**

Lightning lit up the small white house, the only house, on the island of Ogygia. Not long afterward, thunder rolled. Calypso, golden-haired daughter of the Titan Atlas, stood in the doorway of her bed chamber and sighed, contemplating vaguely the dark ways of fate and the man who lay stretched out on her bed.

He was a beautiful man, bronze of skin and dark of hair, with a virile masculinity that years after he had washed up on her island, could still make her body yearn just looking at him. In the beginning, she watched him often, adoring the grace and strength he moved with as he wandered the little island, or fished, or chased after her wild goats, or even when he sat still, waiting for her to leave her weaving behind and come to bed.

Her hand ran over his arm, feeling his warmth and how the muscles flexed as he rolled towards her. It had all been so new to her then, the heady rush of want and desire, the hot nights when she gave and he took, so easy to ignore that wall he built between them, the yearning he hid from her, the sorrow when he thought she wasn't looking. Tonight, his eyes glittered in the lamplight, alert, bright, and yet so carefully masked. She let her fingers drift to his thigh, brushing the naked skin there with the back of her hand.

"Lady," he said softly. He rolled on his back, naked, the coverlet barely covering his manhood. For a moment she gazed, eyes tracing the lines of his muscles, the fine dark hairs leading to what was hidden, then breathed deeply and felt the warm stirring grow stronger.

She stood up. Removing the thong that held back her hair, she shook her locks free, letting the ringlets fall over her shoulders and down her back. Here in this room, with the flickering light from the oil lamp, it shone. "You were missed at dinner, Odysseus. Your son asked for you."

"The storm broke before I could get back from the hunt," he said, carefully hiding what they both knew, that he had been avoiding her as long as he dared. "I sat in a cave and watched the lightning crashing into the sea. I'll make it up to him tomorrow."

"Watching the sea is good," she said, removing her bracelets and putting them on a stand. She kept her voice even, fighting off the urge to ask him how he would make it up to her. Instead, she asked, "Are you hungry? I could get one of the girls to bring you something."

He shook his head no.

Unfastening her girdle, she let the fine linen robe drift off her shoulder, revealing pale, milky skin. She stretched out her hand, hesitated, and then took the bottle sitting on the stand. Bringing it to her chest, she unstoppered it. The smell of it wafted up to her nose, sweet, full of promise. Nectar, that liquid of the gods - its touch could restore youth, sustain the power of a god, or make an unwanted goddess delectable in the eyes of a man she wanted. And tonight, she wanted, even if it was just an illusion. She poured some into her hand, and smoothed it into her skin like a lotion.

Thunder crashed again. "Perhaps Zeus is having words with Poseidon," she said, turning back towards him and letting her robe slide to the ground.

"Noisy conversation," he replied. His eyes, for a moment, grew warm and appreciative as he watched her. He had always admired the way her body looked, and this night was no different.

Stepping to the side of the bed, she let the power of her magic loose, that magic aura that all the gods, no matter how minor, had. It drew the mortals to them, made them something desirable, sacred, potent. Enhanced by the nectar, she knew he would want her. Not for the first time, she wished his desire would come unbidden from his own heart. But tonight, she was willing to take what she could get.

As he watched, she watched his eyes move from gentle appreciation to want. She slid into the bed and under the covers, and placing one of his hands upon her breast, she murmured, "Make love to me, Odysseus."

His mouth found her neck. "Beautiful Calypso," he murmured. "You've made me want you again."

"Yes," she replied, letting her fingers slide across the warmth of his shoulders.

"I would have wanted you anyway," he replied, letting his hand slid between her legs even as her hand wrapped around his manhood. "Could I refuse my goddess anything?"

"Yes, but not this. Not tonight," she whispered, and sighed with want as his mouth found hers and his body plundered hers with a skilled passion.

Later that night, he wrapped his arms around her in his sleep, calling her Penelope. Her maid, Ianthe found her near daybreak in the courtyard, letting the falling rain wash away her tears.


	7. Castaway Thoughts

**Castaway Thoughts**

Odysseus thought of them, sometimes, as he sat on a rock overlooking the sea, watching the waves roll in, the men who sailed with him, even Eurylochus, who caused his ship to wreck, and was the reason he was on this island anyway.

He missed them. He missed the noise and the banter and the jokes and the arguments and the intrigue and the pettiness. Something would remind him of Perimedes or Polites, and his heart would lurch, and then the what ifs would hit.

This day was no different. He threw a pebble at the ocean and shook his head. No use, today, chasing after the ghosts of might-have-beens. All his sighs wouldn't change one moment.

"Stuck on an island of women, offered youth and immorality, and dressed like the gods themselves, and all I can do is be bored," he said, sighing.

Getting up, he turned away from the ocean and walked back to the path to Calypso and her sad eyes. At least there was sex.


	8. Reunion

**Reunion**

Alone at last,  
Odysseus looked into Penelope's eyes,  
not the eyes of the young wife  
he had left behind years ago.

Time had marked them,  
not just in the little lines in the corners,  
but in the journeys they had taken,  
all the days that had passed unshared  
when she stood against the world,  
clinging to her hope.

They looked at him now,  
unadorned with neither kohl nor tears,  
questioning but calm,  
and with a strength  
that almost took his breath away -  
no frail maiden this,  
but a woman forged in the coals  
of what life threw her way.

His hand reached up to her face,  
cupped the soft skin,  
his thumb caressing her cheek.

She dropped her eyes for a moment,  
then looked back up,  
and suddenly, she was the same woman  
with the wry smile  
and smoldering, sultry eyes  
she had been on their wedding night.

Pulling her close,  
he knew for sure  
that finally, he was home.


	9. Midnight Magic

**Midnight Magic**

Odysseus' hand slid down her naked thigh.

Her skin was delicate, perfect, pale ivory beneath his touch. Circe gasped slightly as his hand trailed up, tracing the curve of her hip, the gentle swell of her bottom.

"Do you find me fair?" she asked.

His hand trailed up past her waist, cupping the warm weight of her breast. She breathed in sharply as his thumb played over her nipple. "More than fair, Lady," he replied.

His mouth explored, first the gentle cup of her navel, then each soft rosebud of her breasts, the line of her collar bone. She cried out as he explored, bucked against his thigh seeking more.

His hand slid between her legs, parting them, and he settled between her legs.

Her honey-gold hair cascaded across the pillows as her eyes devoured him. She reached up, let her fingers brush across his lips. "You were born to be here, if only for a time,"she said. "I have waited for you, son of Laertes."

"Wait no more, then, sorceress," he said, then with his mouth over hers, he took her.

Later, as they lay there, watching each other in the flickering light of the lamps, her hand wrapped around his manhood. It reignited at her touch, growing harder even as she watched. "My staff may turn men into swine, but yours turns a goddess into a simpering wanton. So much magic you have over me, Odysseus. Perhaps I shouldn't have called you into my bed."

"Too late for second thoughts," he said, and rolling her underneath him, worked his magic one more time.

A/N Circe was a goddess who lived with her nymph attendants on the mythical island of Aiaia. She was skilled in the magic of metamorphosis, the power of illusion, and the dark art of necromancy. When Odysseus landed on her island she transformed his men into animals, but with the help of the god Hermes, he overcame the goddess and forced her to release his men from her spell. Hermes had told Circe in advance of Odysseus, and as part of her bargain with him, she demanded that the hero take her to bed.


	10. La Divina Fanfiction

**La Divina Fanfiction**

_The god of war stood before her, his eyes devouring her. "You're alone?" he asked._

_She nodded, her golden curls dancing as she stepped up to him. His hand traced fire down the side of her white neck. The beautiful goddess of love's breath caught as she gazed into his eyes, hooded and hungry. _

"_Now," he said, catching her hand. His other slid to the perfection of her cloth-covered breast. "Don't make me wait."_

"_What about..." she said._

"_Don't even think there," he said, giving a short, hard laugh, and dragged her closer to his body. His mouth plundered hers as his hands swept down her back, stopping at length to fumble for the knots of her belt. "Forget your husband," he murmured. "There's only room for two in your bed."_

_His mouth trailed hot kisses down her neck and onto her snowy white bosom as he lifted her up and carried her to..._

Aphrodite heard footsteps behind her. She suddenly pushed her monitor button off. Hephaestus stood behind her, fresh from the bath.

He smiled at her, a warm and cheery grin. "Anything worthwhile on the net?" he asked. If he noticed the flush in her cheeks or a touch of excitement, he ignored it.

"Oh, nothing much. Eros and Psyche sent an email invitation to dinner next week." She frowned, and her husband laughed, walking up behind her.

"You would think after 3000 years, you'd learn to appreciate your daughter-in-law," he said, breathing in her ear.

"Some things never change with time," she said, only pouting a bit.

He kissed her earlobe and gently draped a necklace around her throat, fine gold filigree twisted in delicate arabesques. "I made this for you this afternoon while waiting for those stupid oil field engineers to hurry up with their staff meeting. Wonder if they'll ever get any sense. Hope you like it."

She picked up a mirror, and admired her image, then turned around in her seat and took him by the hand, placed it over her right breast.

"Let me show you my appreciation, husband," she said, and led him away to the bedroom.

Later that night, Hephaestus, the clever craftsman of the gods, sat at his own computer as he uploaded another document to . It still amazed him how Aphrodite loved reading this trash, but long as she enjoyed "Love and War: The Further Adventures of Aphrodite and Ares," he'd spend his late nights writing them. The hell with the threats Ares was sending him. The payoffs were worth the lost sleep.

_A/N According to the old myths, Aphrodite, although married to Hephaestus, the craftsman of the gods, had a long-standing affair with Ares, the god of war. Eros was Aphrodite's son; his wife Psyche was not well loved by Aphrodite, and she rather literally once put her through hell. Interesting to think about how they have adjusted to the modern world...The title is a play on the Italian name of Dante's Divine Comedy, which is a description of one soul's visit to Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven._


	11. Thinking of Athena

**Thinking of Athena**

Athena,  
that wise goddess,  
seeing the way the world was shifting,  
and the fate of other goddesses  
during that dark era  
where the goddesses became weak and bullied,  
put aside her bare breasts  
and bell skirts,  
snakes twining up her arms,  
and kissing her last lover farewell,  
left the wild ways of her youth behind her  
letting herself be reborn  
from Zeus' forehead,  
armed with spear and shield,  
dressing always as a girl,  
her daddy's darling,  
potent in perpetual adolescence.

Times, though, change.

She, like all the other old gods  
are still with us.  
Stripped of their temples,  
they walk among us,  
warming themselves  
at the altars of our day-to-day lives,  
personifications of just what we do  
to get by.

Sometimes,  
I think I glimpse her,  
a gray-eyed woman in her power suit,  
walking into boardrooms  
making deals,  
other times, dressed in comfortable crisp linen blouses  
and swirling natural fiber skirts  
or sensible trousers,  
she attends women's workshops,  
where she teaches us all the cool things  
using her shuttle and spear,  
like how to win in politics,  
and how to knit and make beautiful things,  
how to shoot.

Now that the Thunderer  
is not quite the power broker he once was,  
I wonder if she will bare her breasts again,  
let the snake twine back up her arms,  
and find her lover to kiss once more,  
put away her girlish dress,  
and become, once again,  
fully woman.


	12. Hot June Night

Hot June Night

It was a late June night on Bourbon Street, and it was still hot, the air sultry with the scents of beer and food and hot sweaty bodies. He walked close to the buildings, a long line of brick broken only by gates and stoops and the occasional business sign. It had rained earlier, adding to the humidity; the still wet streets reflected the lights from the street and traffic with garish colors. Further down the street, music still blared out of all-night bars, and small groups of people mingled in front of the clubs, laughing and sometimes rubbing up against each other as they danced the dance of who would go home with whom.

He took a last drink out of his go cup, the last swallow of the beer too warm for his taste as he swallowed, and with a frown, he crumpled the cup and tossed it into a nearby trash can before moving out of the shadows, and across a pool of light from one of the lamp posts and towards the crowd up ahead. As he moved, he heard footsteps behind him, a woman's footsteps, high heels tapping on the hard pavement.

Listening, he continued, then he stepped past a drunk collapsed against the stoop of an apartment entrance, and moved into the shadows of a recessed courtyard gate just beyond. The woman following him moved into the pool of light that he had just left. She was very blonde and petite, in spite of her high heels. Her golden hair was spiked and teased, barely reaching to her shoulders. Her face was heavy with eye makeup, black eyeliner and some glittery effect on the lids. It was cheap and adolescent, almost, but on her pouty, perfect face it signalled more than just teenage experimentation. The tawdriness matched the rest of her - short mini-skirt of tight black fabric, a low-rising cotton blouse that let the tops of her breasts peak out invitingly, her legs encased in high-heeled red leather boots. Cheap, he thought, but hot. He decided to let her make the next move.

Even though he was in the shadows, his dark hair and darker clothing giving little away,she knew he was there and walked with saucy, undulating steps to stop right in front of him. There was insolence and promise, almost laughter in her eyes as she licked her lips, standing much too close. He could smell her cheap perfume and the smell of sweat and lust that hung around her like a cloud.

"Hey mister," she purred, resting one hand with gaudy, blue painted nails on his chest. "You wanna have some fun?"

"And how much is this fun going to cost me?" he asked, grabbing her wrist. Cheap bangles decorating it caught a pale glimmer of light and jangled softly as he moved it away.

"Counts," she said, a small, seductive smile on her face. "For the quicky, twenty-five. Bet a big man like you wants more than that. If you want the night, two hundred."

Her eyes were hard and hot, and even beyond the cheap heavy makeup, they promised infinite delights, and he felt his warmth and want build even as she looked. Suddenly, though, he laughed.

"Damn it, Aphrodite," he said, pulling her body tightly against him. "Back when you'd work besides the girls in Corinth, you never sold yourself that cheap."

The little alcove they were in began to glow with an inhuman light. The drunk nearby stirred and scratched his privates, and a cat wailed out its mating call before dashing across the street.

"You just forgot, Ares," she said smiling. "What brings you here?"

"Oh, the usual. This time it's a little war between two gangs. Nothing that took much time. Maybe you'll see it on Cops. What about you? How'd you get away from your old limper?"

"Just doing my work," she said. She grabbed his hand and moved it towards one ample breast, then let her fingers move down to where they absentmindedly stroked his manhood. "I love this city. It almost has as many devotees, paid and unpaid, as the old temple in Corinth. And the food and the music is so much better."

"Maybe," he said, then moaned as her fingers played him skillfully. He closed his eyes, then tilted back his head.

"You can have me while you're here," she said, then ground herself into him, kissing his neck. "But first you have to pay me. Otherwise, Hephaestus might come wandering by. "

He pulled her closer and devoured her mouth. "You know," he said, coming up for air, "You really are a slut."

Her laughter was like music. "That, my dear lover, is why I'm the goddess of prostitutes. Your room or mine?"

Growling, he picked her up and they disappeared into the night. The drunk opened his eyes for a minute, idly wondering why he felt so aroused, then fell back asleep.

A/N: Another one of my Aphrodite in modern times stories.

This one was inspired by a quote I found: "The temple of Aphrodite in Corinth, Greece was so rich that it owned more than a thousand temple slaves, prostitutes, whom both men and women had dedicated to the goddess. And therefore it was also on account of these women that the city was crowded with people. Outsiders resorted there in great numbers and kept holiday." - Strabo, Geography.

Hephaestus, of course, is Aphrodite's official husband, although it seems that Ares is her preferred lover.

A slightly different version of this story was written for the Hentai_contest community on Live Journal.


	13. One Spring Day Beside the Sea

**One Spring Day Beside the Sea**

It was a warm afternoon, and pleasant. A grove of trees stood, lifting up their branches, pale green with new spring growth. The groves' nymphs, unseen by mortal eyes, sighed softly in the pleasant light beside their bubbling waterfall and in the branches of the trees. They had guarded this place for untold years, and smiled as the old man stopped by the spring and made a prayer and offering. His clothing was well made and his cloak was woven with a fine border, but showed wear and a lack of care, like his graying red hair, too long uncombed. He leaned against his staff, as if standing had become wearisome. The nymphs had seen him many times, ever since he had been a small child, and his current condition of body and soul troubled them.

One spoke to the other in a breath of wind. "It won't be long now." The breath was tinged with a touch of regret.

Her sister nodded. "I wonder how _she _will react?" Her voice was whispers in the waterfall.

"The birds have sung to _her_ often lately," breathed the wind. "_She_ has hovered nearby all winter. But _she_ never stops to visit us."

"No," the waters whispered sadly. "But his son and grandson have visited us many times. Perhaps this is just the way it should be. Time goes on, and waters flow into the sea."

"You are right," the breeze answered. "Still, I will miss him."

Unaware of the conversation around him, the old man finished his prayer, and shifting his staff carefully, moved slowly beyond the grove to a spit of shoreline he had once landed at years earlier.

Laying aside his walking staff, he sat down on a rock and stared out over the water. Light played on the waves near to shore, and the white foam danced around the rocks jutting out. A little to his left there was a stretch of white sand. Once a crew of strangers had returned him home, landing him there, leaving him and his treasures there to whatever Fate had in store. No one then had expected his return. Time since then had driven him back to the same spit of land when his heart felt troubled or the ghosts of his past haunted him, as if demanding that he search once again to see if he had left anything else behind. This day he felt both, and the need to be here, watching the sea was an urge he could not resist.

A ship was rowing into harbor. He recognized it as the one his son had sailed out with earlier in the month. He doubted they would even notice him as they pulled through the water, anxious to make port; he was too small, and the beach too insignificant. Watching the oars dip in rhythm, his mind wandered back to days when he too pulled the oar. Staring down at his hands, rough from a life's use and gnarled by time, he remembered the feel of the wood beneath his hands, and the pull on his muscles. It had been a long time since he was last at sea. Too long maybe. Time had taken that, like so many other things from him.

He had been luckier than most, had tasted more of what the world had to offer and had delved deeper into the mysteries of gods and men than most. Singers had begun to weave tales of his exploits. He ought to feel gratitude, but at this moment, as he pulled his cloak closer against the breeze, all he felt was tired and empty.

"Ah Fate," he murmured. "Is this what you had in mind for Odysseus when it was prophesied that death would come to me mildly from the sea, soft as a woman's hand? Maybe Achilles had the right idea. Maybe it's better to die young."

He thought then about Achilles in his prime, and the war and what followed. His thoughts drifted on to Circe, the fiery sorceress who had started out as an enemy, but became a passionate lover and a friend. And then he remembered Calypso. She had promised him youth and eternity, but no matter how much he tried, the world he longed for, the home that mattered was here, in the world of men, with all its death and loss and mere mortal human joys.

For a long time, he had thought it had been worth it, returning to the life he had left behind. That life had been sweet until the last few years, when first his father passed on, and one by one, his friends and contemporaries began their final journey. Then this last winter, when he had awoken to find Penelope had left him in the night, her cold body resting next to his. Suddenly, the joy of life in the world seemed outweighed by its loss, and he sometimes regretted his decision.

His son was busy with his own life; it brought to mind the wistfulness he sometimes found in his own father's eyes. He didn't understand it then, why Laertes, bereft of wife and most of his own age mates, preferred the countryside to the town, rather than to stand in his son's shadow, dealing with the reality of how time had passed him by and moved on to the next generation. Experience, Odysseus had learned, sometimes teaches her lessons too late.

He leaned back on the rock, letting the sunlight try to chase away the cold that wrapped around him. For a moment, he watched a seabird circle overhead in the endless blue sky, but after a moment, even that was too hard, and he closed them.

The sun was low in the sky when suddenly he was awoken by a staff tapping against his shoulder.

"Are you going to sleep forever, Odysseus son of Laertes?" said a voice, a woman's voice, soft, but filled with amusement.

Recognition dawned on him as he regained consciousness. "I know that voice," he said, mostly to himself. "I know that voice, but it's been a long, long time since I heard it last."

"I was never far away, my clever man," she said. " I have watched over you and yours ever since I brought you back to Ithaca. But I had to wait until the time was right. Now open your eyes, and sit up. It's time for your next adventure."

He blinked open his eyes, and saw gray eyes looking down into his. She was more beautiful than he remembered. The corner of her mouth lifted in a small smile. "Lady?"

"It is time, Odysseus." She held out a hand to him. "Come with me."

He lifted up his hand to take her offered one. The hand he lifted up was strong and young, ungnarled and pain-free. He slowly stood up, feeling all the pain and fatigue and sorrow he had carried all winter fall away from him as he stood.

"My goddess," he whispered, "Athena of the gray eyes."

She brought his hand to her cheek. "My Odysseus. Fate has finished with you and has given me this one moment. But we don't have long to dawdle. Hermes is fast behind me. Will you come?"

He looked behind him, saw the pale, worn out shell he had been in, and the servant who cared for him walking down the path. For a brief moment, he thought of his son and his grandchildren and felt the touch of his wife upon his shoulder.

Turning back, he looked into those calm gray eyes, expectant, waiting, and he could see all eternity in them. "Have I ever been able to refuse my goddess anything?"

She took his hand, still clasped in hers, and kissed it. With a flash of light, they were gone.

The nymphs in the grove sighed in the wind, and the spring mourned. Soon they were joined by the wail of the servant, but the ghost of Penelope, content at his choice, sank happily back into the ground.

_A/N: Hermes was the traditional guide for dead souls to the afterlife. Circe was a sorceress and minor goddess who, finding out that she could not trick Odysseus by her magic, became instead his lover, and gave him directions on how to return home. He only left because his men were becoming restless. Later, all those men, disobeying the guidance they received, all died, and Odysseus would spend seven years with Calypso who loved him and wanted to make him an immortal. It was only Athena's prompting that freed him to return home at last._

_Achilles was one of the heroes of the Trojan war. It had been foretold that he could either live a long life at home, or go to war and die a hero's death, young. He chose the hero's death._


	14. A Disharmonious Moment

**A Disharmonious Moment**

The light in the room was dim, filtered sunlight through heavy red drapes. Gentle music, somehow soothing and sensuous played in the background, an undercurrent that spoke of longing and surrender. From one corner where it could catch the breeze, soft tendrils of jasmine and patchouli and musk-scented smoke rose up from a brazen incense burner, sultry and seductive. Small tables were scattered about the room, laden with wine and fruit, flowers and shimmering vials of precious oils, but that was not what caught the eye. The one thing that dominated the room, beyond the grapes and roses and lilies was the bed.

It was massive, a four poster bed with a canopy. Red velvet curtains tied back at each post, with a golden cord. The bedclothes were pink satin and heavy velvet, askew across the mattress. Bolsters and pillows were scattered across the head of the bed, covered in silk and lace and fine embroidery. In the center of all this rococo glory, like in a scene from a painting by Rubens, the goddess of love stretched out languorously, her naked glory uncovered by sheet or coverlet, her golden hair strewn across the pillows, as she awaited the arrival of her lover Ares.

Suddenly the door flew open, and instead of the strong thewed god of War, a woman, just a little less glorious than the goddess on the bed walked in. Her manner of dress quite modest, she carried a basket of fresh cut flowers on one arm and her neat hair covered with a large straw hat. "Oh Mother, you won't believe what I just saw -" she said. Suddenly her eyes grew round, and she turned away. "I'm sorry. Were you expecting someone?"

Aphrodite, aggravated at having her scene disrupted, sighed, and pulled the sheet up over her. "How many times, Harmonia, do I have to tell you to knock? You really don't want to surprise me that way. One day, you're going to get the shock of your life."

"Too late," the goddess of harmony said, then turned around and walked out of the door.

_A/N - __HARMONIA was the goddess of harmony and concord. As a daughter of Aphrodite, she presided over marital harmony, soothing strife and discord; as a daughter of Ares, she represented harmonious action in war._


	15. Moan for Me

**Moan for Me**

Your skin is hot beneath my hand, Goddess. I bend over and taste the warm, perfect cream of your skin. It tastes of salt and spice, warm vanilla and sultry patchouli. Sweet musk. I let it wrap around me, your presence that lets me pretend to be the seducer as you lay beneath me, an ocean of seduction threatening to drown me. My mouth trails down your throat, and your head tilts back at the sensation. How I would love to devour you whole, even as I know I am just an appetizer for your unquenchable desire.

But tonight, and for as long as you wish it, I will pretend to be conqueror and you will amuse yourself, wrapping your legs around me, pretending to be conquered. Moan for me, your pretty Anchises, sweet Aphrodite, and tonight, I too will be a god.

_A/N: In Greek mythology, Anchises is a Trojan prince who was beloved of Aphrodite. Aphrodite pretended to be a Phrygian princess and seduced him for nearly two weeks of lovemaking. Anchises learned that his lover was a goddess only nine months later, when she revealed herself and presented him with the infant Aeneas, who later would be claimed by the Romans as the founder of the Roman people._


End file.
